


All That is Gold is Rusting

by delicateclarity



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:05:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delicateclarity/pseuds/delicateclarity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes people say Santana is a bitch. Mean, cruel, emotionless, a robot. She's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That is Gold is Rusting

**Author's Note:**

> This kind of came out of nowhere, but I like it all the same. Read on my blog [here.](http://elberethgithoniel.tumblr.com/post/58961236656/drabble-all-that-is-gold-is-rusting) Inspired partially by [this image.](http://writeworld.tumblr.com/post/58639404091/writers-block-a-picture-says-a-thousand-words) Title from the song “Soldier On” by The Temper Trap. While not specifically referred to, this is my headcanon of what happens after Rachel leaves Santana.

Sometimes people say Santana is a bitch. Mean, cruel, emotionless, a robot.

(She’s not).

She wonders what they would say if they could see her now, laying on an unmade bed in clothes she hasn’t changed out of in a couple days, letting her head hang off of the edge, hair brushing the floor.

(Dirty, but she doesn’t care anymore).

She isn’t crying, not anymore, but she knows she will again at some point.

(Feels like that’s all she did for two days).

She doesn’t move to lay on the bed fully. She likes the head rush she gets, despite the fact that it makes her dizzy and gives her a throbbing headache. At least it provides a distraction, because this pain was preferable .

( _She’s gone_ , she thinks).

She thinks, maybe she’ll be normal tomorrow. Thinks she’ll get dressed and put on makeup and walk outside and not let anyone know how she feels now.

(Broken, split down the middle, and it’s all her fault).

She knows she won’t be able to go out tomorrow, knows she couldn’t make it through the day without revealing that she was weak. And it was funny, maybe, that even in her mind she spits that word out, that it’s something she shouldn’t even be thinking about.

(Never again).

She hasn’t spoken in two days, barely eaten or drunk anything in that time. She can’t remember feeling like this since her senior year of high school when her world came crashing down around her.

(Hasn’t been this weak in over ten years, disgusting).

She thinks about taking another sleeping pill, but doesn’t. She closes her eyes, wonders how much she would ache if she falls asleep like this.

(She would deserve it).

She lays there, face red and hair touching the floor, and can’t stop thinking. Eventually she starts to drift off, uneasily, and dreams of yelling and sobbing and doors that won’t open no matter how hard she tries, but still sound like they’re slamming shut.


End file.
